


The Making of An Exhibition

by amarriageoftrueminds



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 1930s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Human, Artist Erik, F/M, Gen, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Humor, M/M, Model Charles, Naked First Impression, Nude Modeling, Sexual Humor, Wodehouseian Misunderstandings, aristocrat Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1267735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarriageoftrueminds/pseuds/amarriageoftrueminds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>do you ever do that funny thing where you wake up at 5am on a Monday morning open your laptop and for NO APPARENT REASON write 4000+ words of a 1930’s Artist/Model Farce AU that didn’t even exist in your head until you wrote it?? </p><p>Yeah, me neither.</p><p>SO WHAT THE *DEUCE* IS THIS?? ^</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Making of An Exhibition

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>   
> _other working title/s:_ 'Would You Mind Awfully Passing Me My Trousers?'  
>  _aka_ 'The Chiaroscuro Cock-Up'  
>  _aka_ 'The Viscount's Unmentionables.' 

 

 

 

The landlord of The Eagle looked up with a sombre expression as a familiar young lady tripped up to the bar. 

  'Hallo there!' She said, short blonde curls bouncing. 'Is Hank in yet?'

  'I'm afraid so, Miss.'

Her smile faltered.

  'Oh no, is it that bad? Where is he?'

He gestured to the corner, to a low table, where a young man sat hunched over his drink with his head in his hands, his glasses askew, a picture of abject misery.

Raven swept over and sank carefully into a seat beside him, murmuring his name.

  'Hank?'

He looked up, his expression haggard. 'Raven-' he choked out. 'Oh God... it was a _nightmare_ , Raven!'

  'Hank, dearest! Whatever do you mean? Weren't you supposed to be meeting Charles today? He's been simply _dying_ to meet you!'

  'Yes! I was! I did! I did meet him! Oh _God-_ '

  'So... so how did it go? What happened?'

Hank gazed at her, hopelessly lost for words. He opened and shut his mouth a few times, gave it up as a lost cause and then seized his drink, downing it in one.

  'You- you mustn't think I'm not _grateful,_ you know,' he said. 'The opportunity to paint a Viscount! The prestige alone! But...'

  'Yes?'

  'Well, you- you know this neighbour of mine, the _other_ painter?'

  'The scary one?'

  'Yes, him. _Well_...'

Hank started to tell her the story.

After a few moments, Raven's hand flew to her mouth.

After a few moments more, her shoulders began to shake.

And a few moments after _that,_ the whole bar reverberated with the sound of her laughter...

 

 

* * *

By the time the agency model knocked on the door, Erik was in a foul mood.

  'Come _in!_ ' He barked, from his vantage point behind the kitchen table, picking up a spanner from his open toolbox and turning his back.

 

He heard the clatter of the door handle and the whine of the hinges, and then-

  'Hallo there!' A pleasant voice called behind him. 'Are you this painter chap I'm supposed to be meeting? '

 

 _“This painter chap”_ Erik thought scathingly, noting that the speaker was apparently out-of-breath from climbing the stairs up to his apartment. _Oh, marvellous, they've sent me a fat Public School boy._

 

 

  'You're late.' He said curtly. 'You were supposed to be here at ten.'

 

There was a hot silence.

Erik ignored it, crouching down to look under the kitchen sink - where that _stupid_ bloody pipe was spewing water everywhere again.

 

'Oh...' Said the model. 'I do apologise. Raven told me to be here for half eleven-'

 

 _Who the devil is Raven?_ _Must be somebody at the agency._

 

  'If you'd turned up on _time_ ,' Erik began, 'we could've got started straight away, but as it is I've got to fix this _blasted_ sink first-'

He broke off, grunting with effort as he wrenched the troublesome valve tight with the head of the spanner.

  '- _So_ , while I'm doing this, there's a screen around the corner, you can get changed behind that. Let me know when you're ready.'

 

  'You want to go straight to it... just like that?'  The voice said, sounding unaccountably surprised. 'Well, I- um- alright...'

 

Behind him, Erik heard the model shuffle off around the corner of the big L-shaped room... past the kitchen, with its Raeburn, its old white box-shaped sink and scrubbed pine table... heard his steps slow as he took in the long metal industrial-grade shelving, groaning under the weight of many paint pots and brushes... the vast draftsman's desk, as big as a double bed and twice as tall... the half-finished canvases stacked against the wall...

Then he'd turn the corner to find a couple of stools and the easel, with paper and pencils and charcoal already set up, and beyond them, in the alcove of the L, the place where the models sat.

Here Erik had made a sort of oriental grotto, a tiny opium den wedged in between the rest of the room and the window seat, where the huge ugly pea green cast-iron radiator glowered.

The spot had been carefully chosen – under the array of skylights, letting in floods of natural light – and was the jewel of the otherwise Spartan studio. 

In the background, great swathes of velvet had been hung to hide the plain wall, and in the centre stood a chaise lounge, upholstered in crimson damask and strewn with silk throws and heavily-embroidered cushions. To either side there were small highly-polished tables, each one topped with a litter of interesting but cheap  _objets d'art,_ and there was a huge house-plant standing in a carved brass pot, its dark green frond-like leaves hanging over the chaise like a giant feather, lending its occupant an air of mystery. 

Off to one side there was, indeed, a large concertinaed rattan-screen, and draped over it a heavily worked Turkish robe, like something Lord Byron would've worn during his _Giaour_ phase.

 

In the kitchen, Erik had just succeeded in slowing the torrent to a trickle when he heard the footsteps return.

The model spoke, haltingly.

  'Erm... Sorry, when you said you wanted me to 'change' ... does that mean you want me to wear a costume, or something? Only I couldn't see-'

 

Erik sighed, glaring at the pipe-bend as if _it_ had insulted his craft and not this idiot behind him. 

  'No.' He said, shortly, struggling to keep his temper. 'I am a student of art, not of fashion. I'm not a photographer. I paint the human form, in its natural state, which is to say: _unclothed_. So the only 'costume' I want you in, is your _birthday suit._ Understood?'

 

Silence.

Then he heard the model expel his breath in a great gust.

  'Well! When you put it like that! I suppose... yes! Why not? In for a penny, in a for a pound...'

Then the footsteps retreated round the corner once more.

 

Task finally accomplished, Erik hurled the much-hated spanner back into the box, jerked up the towel he had been using to mop up the excess water, and straightened out of his crouch, stretching the kinks out of his back and cracking his neck.

Keeping the wet towel in his hand for protection, he picked up the kettle – which had just begun to whistle – off the Raeburn. 

  'Tea or coffee?' He called.

 _'Oh, tea for me thanks!'_ Came the model's voice from behind the screen, somewhat muffled as he struggled to get off whatever item of clothing he was on.

 

_Tea. How did I know?_

 

Erik poured himself a cup of black coffee. He was out of both milk and sugar, so didn't bother to ask whether his guest wanted either.

 

So. Time for the real work.

 

He carried both drinks over, put the tea down one of the little side-tables and his own coffee on the spare stool next to the easel, nestled in amongst the charcoal and pencils.

He noted that the robe had disappeared from over the back of the screen and had been replaced by a grey tweed jacket and a matching pair of slacks.

_Tweed, in the city?_

That was country gear. They'd sent him a country bumpkin? Fantastic.

 

Nevertheless satisfied that his model was getting undressed, he took his seat behind the easel.

 

  'Right!' He called. 'Whenever you're ready.'

 

He waited...

 

And _waited_...

 

He could sensethe man standing, frozen, on the other side of the rattan screen – could see the outline of his silhouette, in fact.

 

He frowned, tapping his foot. 'Do I have to come and get you?'

 

 _'No! Sorry... Just a spot of stage fright,'_ said the voice, and moved.

 

Erik busied himself with his things as the model came out, adjusting the slant of the paper he had attached with a bull-clip to the top of his easel, in preparation for the cartoon.

 

  'I'm not too comfortable with the chaise,' the model said. 'Could I just sit on one of those stools?'

 

  'Fine, there's one in the corner there,' Erik said, not paying attention: he was busy twisting around in his seat, leaning backwards and stretching his arm out to the surface of the desk, where he'd left his putty eraser.

 

Having retrieved it, he turned in time to see the model plant the spare stool down, immediately in front of the chaise, standing with his back to him.

The model leaned his weight on his hands, across the wooden seat, and looked down at it (Erik _assumed_ this was what he was doing, anyway - he could only see the back of his head after all – sleek, dark-brown hair).

The model heaved a sigh, as if to steel himself - which was odd, for a professional.

Erik heard him mutter ' _right!'_   and then in one fluid movement he turned around and slid the robe off his shoulders.

Silence blossomed.

The stiff brocade robe collapsed into a heap upon the floor. Erik knew just how it felt.

All of his irritation and impatience vanished; his stern frown unknitted itself, the tension in his spine melted away, and he ... stared ...

Once his brain had got over the initial shock, his first impression was of whiteness. He'd seen pale models before, but this...? This man's skin was like porcelain. He was so white he was almost blue. And against the rich darkness of the surrounding objects, (as damn near to living  _chiaroscuro_  as could be imagined),his body glowed like a finely sculpted piece of marble. 

Not _pure_ marble though. There were freckles. Not the ugly, mottled kind one often saw, but delicate... just dotted here and there - a few on his collar bone, a few down his arms, and a dusting across the tops of his shoulders, like brown sugar, where he must've been sunburnt at some point. 

His body itself was short; small, but perfectly formed... nicely proportioned limbs... neither fat nor thin but subtly toned, with a broad chest, high waist and beautifully sloping shoulders. 

A pleasing amount of meat on his bones, too – not like these emaciated jobbing art-student models he was used to. 

Small, neat hands and feet, suited to his body type. 

Beautiful lines to his neck and collar bone, because of those shoulders.

His cock, like his body, just on the short side of average but thick and perfectly symmetrical on top of his balls – though hanging slightly to the right, in _contrapposto_ – his pubes dark and neatly trimmed.

Thick thighs, like he might have rowed or played rugby at some point, slipping past each other as he lifted his gratifyingly-round arse to plant it on the stool.

Watching this vision appearing before him, from between the halves of his own robe, it was as if Fate were pushing open the doors of a glittering bank vault, revealing the fabulous treasure within. 

All this he thought in an instant, and at the very same moment his model let out a huff of surprise - he could see the muscles on his stomach contracting as the breath left his body. 

Curious, Erik wrenched his attention reluctantly off the man's torso, up to his face, and – before the model could conceal it – saw in his eyes exactly the same level of frank interest that  _he_ was feeling.

Erik was very glad not to have been drinking his scalding-hot coffee just then - he probably would have choked on it.

Because his model's face was…

That body would've been sufficient subject, alone, but the  _face_ was enough to make a Pre-Raphaelite kick a hole through a finished canvas.

Erik noted the nobly-rounded forehead, the prominent, slightly-hooked yet somehow distinguished nose, the freckles, the impish eyebrows. 

So much  _character._

At first glance, one could almost have thought him ugly. 

But no... not once one really  _looked..._

Because he had those _eyes -_ with the sad, doe-like lashes, the astonishing cobalt-blue colour -  _liquid_ with light. They seemed to reflect more light than there was actual light to reflect. 

His skin was shining and dewy; so lovely it made him seem ageless - he could've been anything from an old-souled eighteen to a fresh-faced thirty, and only the sprig of blue-grey at the top of his hairline provided a clue as to which. 

And then his lips!

 _Rossetti_ lips.

They had that wet look, like his eyes, unusually saturated with a dark, rosebud pigment that he'd never seen before on a model, if it was natural – a red most _women_ would have had to paint on, let alone most men.

And unusual not merely for their colour but for their  _shape._

Erik found himself recalling a phrase from a poem, the title long lost to memory, but one line of it suddenly sang out to him, like a perfectly pitched note: 

' _She had a mouth made to bring death to life, the underlip sucked in, as if it strove to kiss itself._ ' 

That.

That was the kind of mouth he was looking at now.

What a gift to have fallen into his lap!

 

As he stared, the object of his reflection twisted; the point of a very-red tongue slipped out and swiped across the upper lip in a nervous mannerism, and the model spoke.

  'So... shall I just... sit like this? Will this do?'

 

Erik eyed his subject narrowly, with his lips slightly parted and his tongue ticking over his teeth at all the _teeming_ possibilities. He had been informed, on more than one occasion, that he had a smile like a crocodile - so perhaps _that_ was why the man blushed. 

Erik raised a brow as he watched his entire head turn a delicate, rosy shade of pink, which extended even to his ears, and a hot flush begin to creep down his neck.

He waited until the pink tide had almost reached the level of the man's pert little nipples before he took pity on him.

  'Oh yes,' he said, gallantly resisting the urge to cackle. 'That will do nicely.'

 

His model shifted on the stool, crossed his legs demurely – _too late_ – he laced his fingers together and wrapped them around his knee to hold it in position.

Erik could see the nerves twanging. 

Feigning indifference, he picked up his first tool – pencil, not charcoal, something on the harder end of the spectrum, the paler end, to suit his model's colouring – and readied himself to make his first mark, entering himself into that trance-like state of creation.

The model was speaking. 

  'You know, you're not _precisely_  what I-'

  'Let me know if you get too cold.' Erik interrupted, firmly cutting short the awkward conversation. 'And in the meantime: just try to relax...'

  

* * *

 

The session passed in a happy daze.

Erik couldn't recall ever having drawn so well, so effortlessly. The rare im-perfect perfection of his subject seemed to have transmitted itself into his line-work. Every mark fell precisely where it he wanted it to on his first attempt. Every bold stroke, every risky decision and every chance he took, paid off. It was as if his hand simply  _refused_ to do anything less than justice to his subject.

Beside him, on the stool, his coffee grew cold and his eraser lay, forgotten. 

 

* * *

 

Some time later (he had no idea how much time had passed) the sounds of distant life drifted up into the apartment, yanking him unceremoniously from his trance.

The pleasant spell was broken.

From the apartment below there came an anguished cry, then a banging of doors, first muffled then louder.

Erik scowled, trying to filter it out.

But then came a creak of wood nearby (a particular window-frame of his always creaked in sympathy whenever somebody trod the stairs) and the sound of a heavy foot on the threshold. 

It was his idiot neighbour McCoy: a stringy, awkward, bespectacled youth, who looked as if he'd be more at home behind a bank-counter than behind an easel. Why he had chosen to become a painter, when his calling in life was clearly something more along the lines of Chartered-Accountancy...

Until this precise moment, he had never truly appreciated how truly bloody annoying his neighbour was.

Because Henry McCoy had never hammered on his door, as he did now, or burst in, uninvited, with a stained brown-leather box clutched between his freakishly large hands. 

  'I say! _Look_ at this, Lehnsherr!' He cried, brandishing the camera at him. 'A perfectly good Brownie, utterly _ruined_ by water-damage! I shan't have it!'

 

Noting with annoyance the way his model had tensed up again at the intrusion, Erik turned slowly away from his sketch and treated the boy to his most dangerous look.

  'That damage is not my fault, McCoy.' He said softly, eyes flashing. 'I've warned you before to leave a pot under that drip. If you want it fixed, speak to our beloved Landlord. Or better yet _,_ pay a plumber to come and fix it.'

  'Why can't _you?'_

  'Do I look like I'm made of money?'

  'Well, no, but- but- look, dash it all, Lehnsherr, I cannot afford to have you playing Gunga Din, sloshing bally water about the place!'

  'Dare I ask why?'

  'If you must know, I've got the Viscount Greymalkin coming round to sit for me at e-'

 

But when exactly McCoy had the Viscount Greymalkin coming round Erik didn't hear, because at that very moment McCoy spotted the naked man sitting round the corner from him and gave such a violent start that he practically _hurled_ his camera across the room.

It bounced over to his model's feet, shedding extra parts, smashed into the floorboards with a wet squelch, and went off like a firework.

 

In the stunned silence which followed, Erik sighed pointedly and put down his pencil.

  ' _McCoy_... ' he began, in the airy tone of voice which one reserved for explaining difficult things to small children and the incurably insane. 'I don't know how you are accustomed to treating your models, but you will kindly refrain from goggling at _mine._ Haven't you ever seen a nude before?'

But McCoy wasn't listening.

He was gazing, transfixed, with a look of the utmost horror _..._ at his model, who gazed back at him with an expression of polite curiosity, rapidly shading into something else, something approaching– was it - _dread?_

The model spoke.

  'Excuse me,' he said. 'McCoy? _You're_ McCoy _?'_ His eyes widened. 'Sorry, did I hear that correctly? Do I take it that _you_ are Mr McCoy? … _Henry_ McCoy? Otherwise known as-'

  'Hank !' gasped McCoy, who was practically rigid with embarrassment. 'Yes!'

 _'A-h...'_ Said the model, in a faint voice.

 

He was gazing blankly into the vacant air of the apartment, with a strained smile fixed on his face.

His voice remained perfectly light and mild as he continued:

  'So... this gentlemen who kindly offered me a seat in his flat, in return for taking off all my clothes... is... in fact...?'

  'Mr Erik Lehnsherr, Your Lordship.' McCoy said, in leaden tones. 'My _neighbour.'_

 

Erik frowned.

_Your Lordship?_

He stared with mounting understanding at his model, noticing again the high aristocratic forehead, the dignified profile.

 _Well,_ he thought dully, as everything clicked into place. _That explains the voice..._

 

The eyelids of His Lordship the Viscount Greymalkin had fluttered shut.

He pressed his rosebud lips into a thin line and gave a quiet moan, like a diner at a fine restaurant savouring the first delicious morsel of dessert.

  ' _Ugh!_ ' He murmured to himself. ' _Splendid_...'

(He was taking a moment, Erik realised, to pause and admire the true _craftsmanship_ with which Madam Fortune had wrought this particular cock-up.)

His Lordship went on: 

'Well, then, Mr McCoy... _in_ that case... would you mind awfully passing me my trousers?'

 

Before Erik knew it, McCoy had taken over.

He staggered forwards, almost falling over his own feet in his eagerness to comply, babbling profusely at his guest, who disappeared behind the screen once more; even when he'd vanished from view McCoy went on uttering his apologies to thin air and gesticulating wildly. 

Erik himself made no such obeisance but remained on his stool, supremely at ease, enjoying the show with as much delighted insolence on his face as he could muster. 

  'Your Lordship I- I cannot _possibly_ apologise enough-' McCoy was saying. ' _Honestly_ , this is _entirely_ my fault, I am _mortified-_ can you ever possibly forgive me? You see, Raven said to expect you at half  _eleven_ and I'd- I'd just popped out- only for a minute! to get a _newspaper_ ( _I thought you might like one to read, you know, while you were sitting_ \- _I mean, if you'd liked my work enough that you wanted to get started with the preliminary sketch straight away-_ oh! Oh, not that I _still_ expect you to, after- I should understand if you didn't want to look at _my_ frightful daubs at all- well, I say 'frightful' – obviously they're not _all_ bad _-_ it's just that what with... everything... I assume you- Well anyway I'm in 15 _a,_ you see, and this is 15 _b_! And I know the sign isn't very clear (I have _told_ our Landlord to sort it out) but I was only gone for a few minutes so when ten o'clock came and went and you didn't _arrive_ Your Lordship I simply assumed you'd been waylaid somewhere or else forgotten our appointment-' 

  'That's quite alright, dear chap, I quite understand,' said his model as he buttoned up his shirt (looking rather odd now, to Erik, with all his clothes on). 'The fault is mine completely, I assure you. I have invaded this poor man's home-'

He looked at Erik for the first time, and - rather than the embarrassment or annoyance he might have expected, from a member of the landed gentry who'd just been made to look a fool - deep in his vivid-blue eyes, Erik saw _amusement_. 

  'I take it you _were_ expecting someone?' The Viscount asked him.

 

Erik nodded. 

  'An Agency model.' He said. 'I assumed you were it.'

  'Ah...' His Lordship ducked his head. 'I suppose I ought to be flattered you mistook me for a professional... or were you plotting ways to get your money back?'

  'Far from it,' Erik answered honestly, the corner of his mouth twitching. 'When _you_ walked in I thought it was worth every penny.'

 

McCoy spluttered at his cheekiness, but Erik noticed that the _Viscount_ 's face shivered, as if he were repressing a smile.

 

  'Oh no,' he groaned, feigning mortification. 'I expect you'll be dining out on this story for years.'

 Erik held his model's steady gaze. 'Not me,' he said. 'I rarely dine out.' 

 

 At this the Viscount really did smile, a quick pressing of the lips together as if holding in a mouthful of mirth, like water.

  'Well, if you can forgive me for making an exhibition of myself, Mr Lehnsherr, I'll forgive you for your manners. At first I put it down to artistic temperament - but I'm sure that, had you _known_ were addressing a Viscount, you would have behaved quite differently...'

 

  'Oh no, Your Lordship!' McCoy interrupted, missing by a mile the playful note of sarcasm in His Lordship's voice. 'Erik's rude _all the time_ , Your Lordship, you can ask anyone!' 

 

“His Lordship” caught Erik's eye and managed to convey without words that while he may have made an idiot of himself, at least he was in good company.

 

* * *

 

Once fully-dressed again, the Viscount sighed, patting himself down for anything he might have mislaid - like his dignity...

  'Well, Mr McCoy,' he said. 'As I'm still here, shall you take me downstairs and show me your work? It seems a wasted journey otherwise and I know Raven should like me to see it.'

Hank vibrated to attention. 

  'Oh! Certainly!'

He lead the Viscount back into the kitchen and then sprang to the door to hold it open for him, his arms spread wide as if to shield His Lordship from the ignominy of the _working_ environment behind him. 

 

Erik watched the Viscount go with a twinge of regret – he'd put on one hell of a show, after all.

  'My Lord...' he called, just as his model was on the threshold.

 

The Viscount turned, with a look of trepidation, and Erik realised he was expecting a cruel remark of some kind as he said:  

  'Please, after all we've been through?' Gracious, but sounding tired. 'Call me Charles.'

 

Erik pinched the bull-clip at the top of his easel and pulled out from under it the sheet of paper with the cartoon.

He walked over to them, where they stood beside the kitchen table, and held out the sketch towards its subject. 

 

He pitched his voice low; a deep gentle murmur, for His Lordship's ears only. 

 _'Forgetting something, Charles? '_ When the Viscount didn't move, he jutted out his chin and added. ' _Here._ Take it.'

 

Erik rejoiced one last time in the sight of the soft blue eyes, as Charles looked between each of his (wondering, perhaps, whether he was being serious?) and stretched out his hand.

 

  'You're sure?' The Viscount asked quietly, gravely.

 

He grasped the sketch, their gazes stilled, and for a split-second Erik held on to his edge of the paper, enjoying the sensation of movement from the other side, almost like touching the man himself. With uncanny clarity he thought: _am I making your heart race?_

He blinked. The moment passed. He released the paper. 

 

Charles sucked in a breath as he gazed down at his own naked image for the first time. 

That rose-hue blush suffused his cheeks again, his pain finally catching up with him, and for a moment he blinked away actual tears from his blue-blue eyes.

 

Erik frowned in disquiet.

But it wasn't the _embarrassment_ His Lordship was moved by though, was it. It was the _gesture._

By offering him the sketch, Erik had placed the only evidence of the embarrassing episode in his model's hands, making good on his promise not to blab about it – had demonstrated, in short, that he was no petty blackmailer.

Charles wasn't humiliated by it - he was _touched._

 

  'Oh, my _dear chap_ -' the Viscount began, then hastily got a hold of himself. 'I mean to say...  _thank you_ , Mr Lehnsherr. Much obliged.' 

Erik inclined his head. 'Call me Erik.'

The Viscount continued to stare at him gravely. 

  ' _Erik_...' He repeated, like an incantation, trying it out for size.

Erik liked the sound of it on his lips. 

The Viscount seemed to like it, too, for he squared his shoulders, shifted on his feet like a soldier readying a salute and went on in a more business-like manner: 

'Well then. Erik? I wish I could say it's been an unmitigated pleasure meeting you... at least it's been an experience. '

  'Hasn't it just.'

It came out sounding a lot more caustic than Erik had intended, and the Viscount wilted a little at his tone, looking unsure.

  'I'm sorry to have stolen your morning... I know how precious time is to artists, and I deeply regret having wasted yours. If it makes you feel any better, I did make a complete ass of myself in the process. _'_

Erik puffed out his breath dismissively and rolled his shoulder in a shrug – the special one-sided Gallic Shrug which was a chief weapon in any true artist's arsenal.

'Pff. It could have been worse...' (Charles' raised his brows at him quizzically) _'..._ I could have been the plumber.'

 

A sparkle sprang into the Viscount's eyes and finally, _finally,_ Charles laughed; threw his head back to the ceiling and shook with glee, his red lips looking redder still in contrast with his white teeth, which flashed dazzlingly as he smiled.

Erik felt a perverse amount of pleasure in having provoked that look. 

  ' _Very true_ ,' the Viscount chortled before McCoy finally ushered him out, big-hearted enough to enjoy a good joke, even at his own expense. 'Thank heaven for small mercies.'

 

  'Yes...' Erik murmured as the door slammed shut behind them, his voice echoing around the empty apartment; still thinking about Charles' lips and wondering if there was a red in his palette to match it.

  'Thank heaven...'

 

 

 

 

.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>   
> **[** cross-posted, with equal amounts of bafflement, to [my tumblr](http://amarriageoftrueminds.tumblr.com/post/78494073595/hey-guys-do-you-ever-do-that-funny-thing-where). **]**  
> 


End file.
